CHAPTER TWO
Darby Rockwell didn't even notice as she almost knocked over one of the butlers as she tore through the winding hallways to the receiving room, and finally out the sizeable doors where December's blanket of cold hit her like a thousand icicles, straight to the marrow of her bone.
Yet, Darby didn't even feel the effect of the searing cold.
A feverish rush ran through her, causing her to be flushed and red in the cheeks at the same time. Her breathing grew more rapid and heavy.
And she didn't even care that it was beginning to snow, and that she, Darby Rockwell daughter of John Rockwell all-powerful attorney, was walking down a street in Brooklyn at night alone in a flimsy dress and one shoe, her lone heel clicking on the frigid pavement.
A wave of giddiness surge through her. She felt the laughter start from the depths of her and work its way up her throat and finally out her lips.
"Ha ha!" she gleefully cried. "You actually did it Darby. You did it."
Darby Rockwell had been dooming that moment that occurred back inside—the rank David Van Wyck being forced down on his knee and presenting her with the every so lovely engagement ring that with one slip on the finger and one little word would make her painfully his forever.
She had always pondered, when the time finally came, how she would react. Would she say no, run out of the house, and be free forever? Or would she say yes, obeying her parents and doing what was expected of her, and conforming to being the up and coming mayor of New York City's little wife, stifled in a world of parties and pinchbeck socialites.
Saying yes of course would have sealed her fate. She had always felt like a princess trapped inside a castle ruled over by her wicked step parents (for the sake of fantasy she regarded her parents as her stepparents.) A princess destined to marry the horrid behemoth. A princess who waited on pins and needles every waking moment for her prince to come and sweep her off her feet and rescue her.
So far, that prince had not made an appearance.
Though still, Darby was truly surprised by her audacity. She had always concluded that she would say yes to David, he would slip the ring on her finger, their mothers would cry and their fathers congratulate each other on the spectacular amount of capital they had just earned through this union, and right then and there her life as she knew it would come to term.
But it hadn't.
She had actually denied the behemoth her hand and flitted out of her evil stepparent's castle.
She was free. Free to do what ever the hell she wanted.
Darby finally rebounded back to reality and took her first inhalation of freedom.
Instead, "Godamnit, it's cold out!" came from her lips.
Freedom sure was chillsome.
The glacial weather soon overcame Darby in the form of convulsions and chattering teeth.
But Darby never slowed her pace, only wrapped her arms around her, an attempt to salvage what warmth remained. "Why does it have to be so goddamn cold out?" she murmured.
Darby knew her mother's hair would curl if she heard the language that her prim and proper daughter was using now. Darby had learned all the expletives she knew from the one she considered her only and dearest friend in the world, Katrina Van Witt. Although the Van Witts themselves were wealthy, Katrina was known to have a passion for the lower class options in Brooklyn, particularly, in one instance having a fling with a—shudder-- newsboy.
Darby finally became aware of the fact only one heel was a hindrance to her walking. "Goddamn heel!" she hissed, raising her ankle in reach of her arm, undoing the buckling, and pitching the shoe to the side.
And she trudged on, her barren feet making a slight pitter-patter sound against the cold cement.
Second thoughts were starting to creep up into the back of Darby's mind. The atmosphere Brooklyn took on was staring to get to her. No longer were there the plush residences of Main Street, but more run down type shanties.
And she was walking solely by herself in a run-down area of Brooklyn in the fledgling night, with only the snowflakes for companions.
Darby observed the setting around her, and felt panic suddenly set in.
What the hell had she been thinking? That a little rich girl could just run away from home and fend for herself out in the real world?
And, plus, she was chilled to the bone and her feet numb from the searing cold of the pavement.
Darby looked around once more. Not a soul in sight.
"What the hell is this?" she said in a shaky voice. "This is damn New York, not outer space! Where is everyone?"
But Darby could no answer that question.
She felt the lump form in her throat and the tears from in the creases of her eyes, slowly working their way down her cheeks, as her teeth chattered and the shivers found their way down her backbone.
Gazing around, she found that some type of dark bricked apartment loomed to her left. In front of that, was planted a rather warped green bench, which sagged unhappily to one side.
Wrapping her arms more tightly around her waist, Darby rushed over to the bench. She sat, with her knees pulled close and buried her face in to them, knowing know her fate was that she was either going to turn into an ice cube or be snatched by some unknown assailant that in the end wold demand ransom from her parents in return for her safe return.
All the while she sat there, thinking of even more unfavorable scenarios that were bound to happen to her, she didn't even hear the crunching of the snow and the grumbles emitted from the boy, the boy in the threadbare jacket, derby cap pulled low over ears, hands jammed in pockets, and cheeks stained red from the cold.
But how could she see him, breath visible in the air before it evaporated and head down to the ground, as he heard her bewail her heart out? And that, causing his grumbles to cease and to hoist up his head, his glittering green eyes falling upon Darby, to him looking nothing more than a pile of shaking blonde curls and pale blue fabric.
The boy, his interest struck by Darby, made his way over to the bench. He raised an eyebrow and curiosity invaded his eyes, as he halted behind the back of the bench.
Darby's wails only got more audible, on account of she knew she would never see her family again and would have to live her life as some perverse man's slave.
A look of amusement crossed the boy's face, and he sat on the edge of the bench, a great space between he and the sobbing girl.
He gazed at her, entertained in a wondrous way by her not knowing of his presence, his chin resting on his fist.
He finally cleared his throat.
Darby's wails immediately caught in her throat. She ever so slowly raised her head—and saw the boy.
Her high-pitched scream ruptured the air, causing the boy to let out a cry of surprise and fall off the bench and onto the snow laded sidewalk and Darby to hop to her feet on the bench.
The boy collected himself, shaking his head to rid himself of the bursting stars he saw. He grasped the seat of the bench and pulled himself into a sitting position, seeing Darby frozen on the bench, her expression that of hysteria.
As he helped himself to his feet, their eyes still locked, as Darby screamed. "Don't kill me! Please don't kill me! I have money! Money!"
An amused smile crossed the boy's lips, as he made his way round the front of the bench and stood directly in front of Darby, who stood on the bench looking at him with such an expression of fright as though it were Judgement Day and she herself had just been sentenced to a lifetime in Hell.
Darby's eyes flooded with fear. "Oh, please don't murder me! Please don't! My father has money! If..if you do kill me, he will search for you and find you and then, boy, will it be curtains for you, sir!"
The boy tried to contain his smile as his hand moved for his back pocket.
In a gasp, Darby drew her hands to her mouth. "Oh, dear God, he has a knife!"
As the boy clasped the object he harbored in his back pocket, Darby fell to her knees, clasping her hands together. "Dear God, I have been good! I attended mass every Sunday like a good Christian with Mother and Father. I said my prayers and was never selfish…"
It took all the will power the boy had to stifle his laughter as he clasped his slingshot and in one quick motion and pointed it at Darby, as if ready to fire at her.
Darby let out a scream and leapt off the bench. She would have sprinted away of the boy hadn't grabbed her upper arm. She turned to face him, her eyes falling on the slingshot.
"I'll scream! I'll scream if you even try! They will hear me!" she pointed to the apartment like building behind her, with a single golden light emitted from one of the window.
This time, the boy wasn't successful in covering it. He let go of Darby and fell to the ground, being he was so consumed by howls of laughter.
Instead of escaping, Darby stood bemused, her head tilted gazing at the boy incredulously.
She couldn't take it anymore. "For God's sake, what is so goddamn funny?"
The boy looked at her, his eyes glistening. "You…you…you…"
"What?" Darby snapped, taking the hand that did not hold the slingshot, and pulling him in one quick jerk to his feet.
"You t'ought dat dey would hear ya in dere?" he asked, thumbing over his shoulder at the building.
Darby glanced at the building and then back to the hysterical boy. "Yes!" she cried.
She boy shook his head. "Yeah, right!"
Darby fixated her hands on her hips. "Yes, they would, sir! If a young lady was screaming bloody murder outside, then those residing inside would surely come to her rescue!"
The boy shook his head again as his laughter finally subsided. "Goil, dat dere is one of da most populah brothels in Brooklyn. Ya really t'ink dat dose men gonna run down ta ya rescue when dey up dere knockin' boots?"
Darby's mouth gaped as her gaze snapped to the brothel, unbelieving. She shook her head as she turned once again to the boy. "A bordello?"
He nodded. "Yeah, a whorehouse, a brothel, a bordello, whatevah da hell ya wanna call it."
Darby took one more look over her shoulder at the brothel and then back at the boy. Seeing the snow clung to him made her feel a stab of unbearable coldness once again. The shivers and chattering of the teeth overtook her once more.
Disregarding the horrid boy, she once again wrapped her arms around her waist and, keeping her head low, trudged on in the direction of her house. After a few paces she turned around, locking eyes with the boy still standing by the bench.
"You could not have kill me with that pitiful slingshot," she sniffed, once again turning and quickening her pace, a strong craving overtaking her to be in her goose-down bed.
As if on cue, Darby heard a whizzing noise, as if something was in flight over her head.
Her blue eyes wide, she swirled around, to see the boy behind the thin veil of newly fallen snowflakes, the slingshot in front of his face, one eye narrowed and the other glimmering with determination. The elastic piece of the slingshot was feeling the after effects of the object he had just let zing through the air.
"You could have killed me!" Darby screeched.
The boy casually replaced the slingshot in his back pocket, and strode past Darby in a smug, simply stating, "Point proven."
Darby quickly caught up with him. "Jesus, you act like you are God's gift to earth."
The boy turned to her, a lopsided grin forming on his face. "Can I ax ya a question?"
"What?" Darby snapped.
"Why ya walkin' dis kinda weathah wit out any shoes?"
Darby halted and looked down at her feet. They had turned blue.
She once again caught up to the boy. "That, sir, is none of your business whether I wish to walk in the snow without any footwear or not."
The boy looked amused by her use of wording. "So ya a rich goil, I take it?"
Darby was offended. "And how do you conclude that?"
"Simple," he stated. "All normal people in New Yawk talk wit an accent. It's only da richies dat can 'fford some poisin ta teach 'em not ta tawk wit da accent."
Darby shook her head. "I did not understand one word you just uttered, sir."
The boy let out a laugh. "Yeah, well everyone else I'se met does. And will ya stop callin' me sir? Most people call me God."
It took a moment for Darby to get his understatement. "Oh, you are clever. Oh, so clever. Yes, I could tell you were God in the way you walk. You think that you are so much better than other beings."
The boy, pulling his cap down lower over his ears, snorted. "Right. And I'se didn't undahstand a woid you jist said dere. So we'se even. And da name's Spot."
Darby looked incredulously at this boy who insisted his name was Spot. "Spot?" she asked, before bursting out into giggles. "Spot? What the hell kind of name is Spot?"
Darby knew she had struck his temper by the way his whole face took on the shade of scarlet that the cold had turned his cheeks. "Oh, yeah? And what's ya name."
"Miss Darby Rockwell," she replied.
Now it was his turn to laugh. "Miss Dahby Rockwell? Now I'se know ya a rich bitch."
"A rich bitch!" Darby exclaimed. "How dare you insult me, you miscreant!"
The boy let out a laugh. "I don't know what da hell miscr…bla bla means, but I take it is means somet'ing like son of a bitch?"
Darby nodded. "Precisely!"
As they walked, Darby didn't even notice that the once run down area of Brooklyn she had been in was now turning into the posh quarters she was used to.
"So, tell me dis, Miss Dahby Rockwell, why's a rich goil like you cryin' 'er eyes out in front of a brothel wit out any shoes on?" Spot asked.
Darby was taken aback by his question. "That's personal, sir. I will not give that out…"
"I'll give ya me shoes and jacket if ya tell me why?"
Darby looked over at Spot, almost jumping at the prospect of having shoes to protect her feet from the cold once more. "Really?"
He nodded.
"Alright!"
After the exchange was made, Darby felt a steep increase in the warmth she felt, even though the jacket was moth eaten and the shoes a few sizes too big.
"I am running away from home," she stated.
Spot locked gazes with her and fell into stitches.
"What is it?" Darby snapped.
"A rich goil like you, runnin' away from home?" he asked incredulously.
Darby felt deeply offended. "Yes, I am running away from home. You don't know what it's like to me. The same repetitiveness everyday. Dinner parties upon dinner parties upon goddamn dinner parties. It's horrid! I…I want to be free."
Spot took on a serious tone. "Well, goil, I'd rathah be in ya shoes and ya can be in mine."
"But I am in your's," Darby smiled.
Spot grinned. "Ah, ya know what I mean."
Darby sincerely shook her head. "No, I don't. I wish I could be in your shoes…oh, you know what I mean. I just despise my life with such a passion. That's why I'm running away…"
Spot suddenly halted. "And dat's why ya came back?"
"What?" Darby cried, following his gaze to the rather tall wrought-iron fence with Rockwell inscribed into it.
She turned back to him, her eyes wide. "How did you know?"
Spot shrugged. "I'se know me way 'round Brooklyn. I know dat Main Street is where all da richies live. And da woid Rockwell written on da gate sorta gave it away."
Suddenly, Darby felt a surge of emotions inside of her. With all of her, she did not want to step inside those gates to find the scene awaiting her. Then again, she could just pass right by the gates and never look back. And end up what? A sobbing, helpless heap on a bench in front of a bordello. And perhaps she wouldn't be lucky enough to have another Spot help her out.
Her gaze interlocked with his fiery green eyes once more. "Well, I guess I better get inside. Mother and Father must be worried sick about me."
Spot smiled and nodded.
But Darby didn't want to let this mysterious boy go. "Um, I have to say thank you. I behaved so rashly, thinking that a rich girl could ever survive on her own."
His eyes glistened. "Don't evah say dat. If ya evah do woik up da noive ta be on ya own, ax foah Spot."
Darby bit her lower lip and grinned. "Yeah. I will be sure to do that. Well, it's been nice meeting you Spot…"
"Conlon."
"Pardon?"
"Spot Conlon. Dat's me name."
"Oh, right," Darby replied, her cheeks flaming up. "It's been grand meeting you, Spot Conlon." She held out her hand.
Instinctively, Spot spit in his hand and went to clasp Darby's, when she pulled back, disgusted.
"What?" he asked innocently.
"You spit in your hand!" Darby cried.
A grin overtook his face. "Oh, right. Well, dat's da way we shake hands, dose of us dat speak wit a New Yawk accent."
She caught the challenge in his eyes, and surprised him (and herself), by spitting in her own hand and shaking his.
For a moment, Darby and Spot stood in silence, with only the evr so slight howl of the wind in their ears.
"Well," Darby said at last. "I want to thank you again, Spot Conlon. And here are your shoes and coat."
She shucked off his articles of clothing and handed them to Spot, who eagerly reapplied them.
They stood, Darby's feet now freezing on the searing pavement, their gazes interlocked.
"You better be goin'," Spot said at last.
"Right," Darby smiled. "Well, goodbye."
"G'bye," Spot replied.
With that, Darby spun on her heel, and with one flick of the wrist, opened the wrought-iron gate.
As she scurried back to her awaiting father and mother quickly on tip toes, all Darby could think about is how she had lost. She would have to be wed to the behemoth and stay trapped in her evil stepparent's castle forever. Forever waiting the nonexistent prince to sweep her off her feet and rescue her.
What Darby Rockwell didn't realize was, that through all the complications, her prince had shown his face and would show it again, and sweep her off her feet he would indeed.
Darby Rockwell didn't even notice as she almost knocked over one of the butlers as she tore through the winding hallways to the receiving room, and finally out the sizeable doors where December's blanket of cold hit her like a thousand icicles, straight to the marrow of her bone.
Yet, Darby didn't even feel the effect of the searing cold.
A feverish rush ran through her, causing her to be flushed and red in the cheeks at the same time. Her breathing grew more rapid and heavy.
And she didn't even care that it was beginning to snow, and that she, Darby Rockwell daughter of John Rockwell all-powerful attorney, was walking down a street in Brooklyn at night alone in a flimsy dress and one shoe, her lone heel clicking on the frigid pavement.
A wave of giddiness surge through her. She felt the laughter start from the depths of her and work its way up her throat and finally out her lips.
"Ha ha!" she gleefully cried. "You actually did it Darby. You did it."
Darby Rockwell had been dooming that moment that occurred back inside—the rank David Van Wyck being forced down on his knee and presenting her with the every so lovely engagement ring that with one slip on the finger and one little word would make her painfully his forever.
She had always pondered, when the time finally came, how she would react. Would she say no, run out of the house, and be free forever? Or would she say yes, obeying her parents and doing what was expected of her, and conforming to being the up and coming mayor of New York City's little wife, stifled in a world of parties and pinchbeck socialites.
Saying yes of course would have sealed her fate. She had always felt like a princess trapped inside a castle ruled over by her wicked step parents (for the sake of fantasy she regarded her parents as her stepparents.) A princess destined to marry the horrid behemoth. A princess who waited on pins and needles every waking moment for her prince to come and sweep her off her feet and rescue her.
So far, that prince had not made an appearance.
Though still, Darby was truly surprised by her audacity. She had always concluded that she would say yes to David, he would slip the ring on her finger, their mothers would cry and their fathers congratulate each other on the spectacular amount of capital they had just earned through this union, and right then and there her life as she knew it would come to term.
But it hadn't.
She had actually denied the behemoth her hand and flitted out of her evil stepparent's castle.
She was free. Free to do what ever the hell she wanted.
Darby finally rebounded back to reality and took her first inhalation of freedom.
Instead, "Godamnit, it's cold out!" came from her lips.
Freedom sure was chillsome.
The glacial weather soon overcame Darby in the form of convulsions and chattering teeth.
But Darby never slowed her pace, only wrapped her arms around her, an attempt to salvage what warmth remained. "Why does it have to be so goddamn cold out?" she murmured.
Darby knew her mother's hair would curl if she heard the language that her prim and proper daughter was using now. Darby had learned all the expletives she knew from the one she considered her only and dearest friend in the world, Katrina Van Witt. Although the Van Witts themselves were wealthy, Katrina was known to have a passion for the lower class options in Brooklyn, particularly, in one instance having a fling with a—shudder-- newsboy.
Darby finally became aware of the fact only one heel was a hindrance to her walking. "Goddamn heel!" she hissed, raising her ankle in reach of her arm, undoing the buckling, and pitching the shoe to the side.
And she trudged on, her barren feet making a slight pitter-patter sound against the cold cement.
Second thoughts were starting to creep up into the back of Darby's mind. The atmosphere Brooklyn took on was staring to get to her. No longer were there the plush residences of Main Street, but more run down type shanties.
And she was walking solely by herself in a run-down area of Brooklyn in the fledgling night, with only the snowflakes for companions.
Darby observed the setting around her, and felt panic suddenly set in.
What the hell had she been thinking? That a little rich girl could just run away from home and fend for herself out in the real world?
And, plus, she was chilled to the bone and her feet numb from the searing cold of the pavement.
Darby looked around once more. Not a soul in sight.
"What the hell is this?" she said in a shaky voice. "This is damn New York, not outer space! Where is everyone?"
But Darby could no answer that question.
She felt the lump form in her throat and the tears from in the creases of her eyes, slowly working their way down her cheeks, as her teeth chattered and the shivers found their way down her backbone.
Gazing around, she found that some type of dark bricked apartment loomed to her left. In front of that, was planted a rather warped green bench, which sagged unhappily to one side.
Wrapping her arms more tightly around her waist, Darby rushed over to the bench. She sat, with her knees pulled close and buried her face in to them, knowing know her fate was that she was either going to turn into an ice cube or be snatched by some unknown assailant that in the end wold demand ransom from her parents in return for her safe return.
All the while she sat there, thinking of even more unfavorable scenarios that were bound to happen to her, she didn't even hear the crunching of the snow and the grumbles emitted from the boy, the boy in the threadbare jacket, derby cap pulled low over ears, hands jammed in pockets, and cheeks stained red from the cold.
But how could she see him, breath visible in the air before it evaporated and head down to the ground, as he heard her bewail her heart out? And that, causing his grumbles to cease and to hoist up his head, his glittering green eyes falling upon Darby, to him looking nothing more than a pile of shaking blonde curls and pale blue fabric.
The boy, his interest struck by Darby, made his way over to the bench. He raised an eyebrow and curiosity invaded his eyes, as he halted behind the back of the bench.
Darby's wails only got more audible, on account of she knew she would never see her family again and would have to live her life as some perverse man's slave.
A look of amusement crossed the boy's face, and he sat on the edge of the bench, a great space between he and the sobbing girl.
He gazed at her, entertained in a wondrous way by her not knowing of his presence, his chin resting on his fist.
He finally cleared his throat.
Darby's wails immediately caught in her throat. She ever so slowly raised her head—and saw the boy.
Her high-pitched scream ruptured the air, causing the boy to let out a cry of surprise and fall off the bench and onto the snow laded sidewalk and Darby to hop to her feet on the bench.
The boy collected himself, shaking his head to rid himself of the bursting stars he saw. He grasped the seat of the bench and pulled himself into a sitting position, seeing Darby frozen on the bench, her expression that of hysteria.
As he helped himself to his feet, their eyes still locked, as Darby screamed. "Don't kill me! Please don't kill me! I have money! Money!"
An amused smile crossed the boy's lips, as he made his way round the front of the bench and stood directly in front of Darby, who stood on the bench looking at him with such an expression of fright as though it were Judgement Day and she herself had just been sentenced to a lifetime in Hell.
Darby's eyes flooded with fear. "Oh, please don't murder me! Please don't! My father has money! If..if you do kill me, he will search for you and find you and then, boy, will it be curtains for you, sir!"
The boy tried to contain his smile as his hand moved for his back pocket.
In a gasp, Darby drew her hands to her mouth. "Oh, dear God, he has a knife!"
As the boy clasped the object he harbored in his back pocket, Darby fell to her knees, clasping her hands together. "Dear God, I have been good! I attended mass every Sunday like a good Christian with Mother and Father. I said my prayers and was never selfish…"
It took all the will power the boy had to stifle his laughter as he clasped his slingshot and in one quick motion and pointed it at Darby, as if ready to fire at her.
Darby let out a scream and leapt off the bench. She would have sprinted away of the boy hadn't grabbed her upper arm. She turned to face him, her eyes falling on the slingshot.
"I'll scream! I'll scream if you even try! They will hear me!" she pointed to the apartment like building behind her, with a single golden light emitted from one of the window.
This time, the boy wasn't successful in covering it. He let go of Darby and fell to the ground, being he was so consumed by howls of laughter.
Instead of escaping, Darby stood bemused, her head tilted gazing at the boy incredulously.
She couldn't take it anymore. "For God's sake, what is so goddamn funny?"
The boy looked at her, his eyes glistening. "You…you…you…"
"What?" Darby snapped, taking the hand that did not hold the slingshot, and pulling him in one quick jerk to his feet.
"You t'ought dat dey would hear ya in dere?" he asked, thumbing over his shoulder at the building.
Darby glanced at the building and then back to the hysterical boy. "Yes!" she cried.
She boy shook his head. "Yeah, right!"
Darby fixated her hands on her hips. "Yes, they would, sir! If a young lady was screaming bloody murder outside, then those residing inside would surely come to her rescue!"
The boy shook his head again as his laughter finally subsided. "Goil, dat dere is one of da most populah brothels in Brooklyn. Ya really t'ink dat dose men gonna run down ta ya rescue when dey up dere knockin' boots?"
Darby's mouth gaped as her gaze snapped to the brothel, unbelieving. She shook her head as she turned once again to the boy. "A bordello?"
He nodded. "Yeah, a whorehouse, a brothel, a bordello, whatevah da hell ya wanna call it."
Darby took one more look over her shoulder at the brothel and then back at the boy. Seeing the snow clung to him made her feel a stab of unbearable coldness once again. The shivers and chattering of the teeth overtook her once more.
Disregarding the horrid boy, she once again wrapped her arms around her waist and, keeping her head low, trudged on in the direction of her house. After a few paces she turned around, locking eyes with the boy still standing by the bench.
"You could not have kill me with that pitiful slingshot," she sniffed, once again turning and quickening her pace, a strong craving overtaking her to be in her goose-down bed.
As if on cue, Darby heard a whizzing noise, as if something was in flight over her head.
Her blue eyes wide, she swirled around, to see the boy behind the thin veil of newly fallen snowflakes, the slingshot in front of his face, one eye narrowed and the other glimmering with determination. The elastic piece of the slingshot was feeling the after effects of the object he had just let zing through the air.
"You could have killed me!" Darby screeched.
The boy casually replaced the slingshot in his back pocket, and strode past Darby in a smug, simply stating, "Point proven."
Darby quickly caught up with him. "Jesus, you act like you are God's gift to earth."
The boy turned to her, a lopsided grin forming on his face. "Can I ax ya a question?"
"What?" Darby snapped.
"Why ya walkin' dis kinda weathah wit out any shoes?"
Darby halted and looked down at her feet. They had turned blue.
She once again caught up to the boy. "That, sir, is none of your business whether I wish to walk in the snow without any footwear or not."
The boy looked amused by her use of wording. "So ya a rich goil, I take it?"
Darby was offended. "And how do you conclude that?"
"Simple," he stated. "All normal people in New Yawk talk wit an accent. It's only da richies dat can 'fford some poisin ta teach 'em not ta tawk wit da accent."
Darby shook her head. "I did not understand one word you just uttered, sir."
The boy let out a laugh. "Yeah, well everyone else I'se met does. And will ya stop callin' me sir? Most people call me God."
It took a moment for Darby to get his understatement. "Oh, you are clever. Oh, so clever. Yes, I could tell you were God in the way you walk. You think that you are so much better than other beings."
The boy, pulling his cap down lower over his ears, snorted. "Right. And I'se didn't undahstand a woid you jist said dere. So we'se even. And da name's Spot."
Darby looked incredulously at this boy who insisted his name was Spot. "Spot?" she asked, before bursting out into giggles. "Spot? What the hell kind of name is Spot?"
Darby knew she had struck his temper by the way his whole face took on the shade of scarlet that the cold had turned his cheeks. "Oh, yeah? And what's ya name."
"Miss Darby Rockwell," she replied.
Now it was his turn to laugh. "Miss Dahby Rockwell? Now I'se know ya a rich bitch."
"A rich bitch!" Darby exclaimed. "How dare you insult me, you miscreant!"
The boy let out a laugh. "I don't know what da hell miscr…bla bla means, but I take it is means somet'ing like son of a bitch?"
Darby nodded. "Precisely!"
As they walked, Darby didn't even notice that the once run down area of Brooklyn she had been in was now turning into the posh quarters she was used to.
"So, tell me dis, Miss Dahby Rockwell, why's a rich goil like you cryin' 'er eyes out in front of a brothel wit out any shoes on?" Spot asked.
Darby was taken aback by his question. "That's personal, sir. I will not give that out…"
"I'll give ya me shoes and jacket if ya tell me why?"
Darby looked over at Spot, almost jumping at the prospect of having shoes to protect her feet from the cold once more. "Really?"
He nodded.
"Alright!"
After the exchange was made, Darby felt a steep increase in the warmth she felt, even though the jacket was moth eaten and the shoes a few sizes too big.
"I am running away from home," she stated.
Spot locked gazes with her and fell into stitches.
"What is it?" Darby snapped.
"A rich goil like you, runnin' away from home?" he asked incredulously.
Darby felt deeply offended. "Yes, I am running away from home. You don't know what it's like to me. The same repetitiveness everyday. Dinner parties upon dinner parties upon goddamn dinner parties. It's horrid! I…I want to be free."
Spot took on a serious tone. "Well, goil, I'd rathah be in ya shoes and ya can be in mine."
"But I am in your's," Darby smiled.
Spot grinned. "Ah, ya know what I mean."
Darby sincerely shook her head. "No, I don't. I wish I could be in your shoes…oh, you know what I mean. I just despise my life with such a passion. That's why I'm running away…"
Spot suddenly halted. "And dat's why ya came back?"
"What?" Darby cried, following his gaze to the rather tall wrought-iron fence with Rockwell inscribed into it.
She turned back to him, her eyes wide. "How did you know?"
Spot shrugged. "I'se know me way 'round Brooklyn. I know dat Main Street is where all da richies live. And da woid Rockwell written on da gate sorta gave it away."
Suddenly, Darby felt a surge of emotions inside of her. With all of her, she did not want to step inside those gates to find the scene awaiting her. Then again, she could just pass right by the gates and never look back. And end up what? A sobbing, helpless heap on a bench in front of a bordello. And perhaps she wouldn't be lucky enough to have another Spot help her out.
Her gaze interlocked with his fiery green eyes once more. "Well, I guess I better get inside. Mother and Father must be worried sick about me."
Spot smiled and nodded.
But Darby didn't want to let this mysterious boy go. "Um, I have to say thank you. I behaved so rashly, thinking that a rich girl could ever survive on her own."
His eyes glistened. "Don't evah say dat. If ya evah do woik up da noive ta be on ya own, ax foah Spot."
Darby bit her lower lip and grinned. "Yeah. I will be sure to do that. Well, it's been nice meeting you Spot…"
"Conlon."
"Pardon?"
"Spot Conlon. Dat's me name."
"Oh, right," Darby replied, her cheeks flaming up. "It's been grand meeting you, Spot Conlon." She held out her hand.
Instinctively, Spot spit in his hand and went to clasp Darby's, when she pulled back, disgusted.
"What?" he asked innocently.
"You spit in your hand!" Darby cried.
A grin overtook his face. "Oh, right. Well, dat's da way we shake hands, dose of us dat speak wit a New Yawk accent."
She caught the challenge in his eyes, and surprised him (and herself), by spitting in her own hand and shaking his.
For a moment, Darby and Spot stood in silence, with only the evr so slight howl of the wind in their ears.
"Well," Darby said at last. "I want to thank you again, Spot Conlon. And here are your shoes and coat."
She shucked off his articles of clothing and handed them to Spot, who eagerly reapplied them.
They stood, Darby's feet now freezing on the searing pavement, their gazes interlocked.
"You better be goin'," Spot said at last.
"Right," Darby smiled. "Well, goodbye."
"G'bye," Spot replied.
With that, Darby spun on her heel, and with one flick of the wrist, opened the wrought-iron gate.
As she scurried back to her awaiting father and mother quickly on tip toes, all Darby could think about is how she had lost. She would have to be wed to the behemoth and stay trapped in her evil stepparent's castle forever. Forever waiting the nonexistent prince to sweep her off her feet and rescue her.
What Darby Rockwell didn't realize was, that through all the complications, her prince had shown his face and would show it again, and sweep her off her feet he would indeed.